50 Ways to Find a Lover

by Lucy-Anne Holmes

  ‘I always called you Favourite Customer,’ I jabber as though I am nine and three-quarters.

  ‘Have some more wine, Sarah,’ he says kindly.

  ‘Um, no, I think I should get my stuff and head home. Thank you. Though. That was lovely.’ I’m mumbling incoherently. I have to get away. Quickly. I know that he is just a person and I shouldn’t feel intimidated. But I do. I rush up to the bathroom. Someone has dried and folded my clothes. I quickly put them on and walk downstairs. Eamonn Nigels is waiting for me at the bottom, holding my motorcycle helmet.

  ‘Can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘Oh no, thank you though. Thank you for the wine and will you thank Alistair?’ Stop thanking the poor man now, Sarah.

  ‘It was lovely to see you away from work, Sarah.’

  ‘Oh yes, thank you, thank you,’ I mumble for about the fifteenth time, and I shuffle out of his beautiful house.

  twenty-five

  Every new day begins with the same old question. Do I snooze again or do I get up and start doing things?

  Now I know I should get up and start doing things to the day – seizing it and grabbing it by the bollocks, etc. But this knowledge is being complicated by the fact that I am undergoing a spiritual epiphany. I am currently experiencing oneness with the mattress. I have melted into springs, flock and foam rubber. I am the mattress. The mattress is me. We are one. Eternally.

  Nine more minutes and then I’ll get up. I want to get back to my dream. It was a sublime one. I was at an awards ceremony. The results of the Best Actress category were just about to be announced.

  I snuggle into the duvet and close my eyes. After a few moments I am dreaming again. Stephen Fry has a lot of awards to dole out. He is being very droll. ‘Ah ha,’ I laugh. I’m in the front row. I’m very pale for LA. I should have had a St Tropez tan for the occasion. Stephen Fry’s talking about me. He just mentioned my ‘marvellous flanks’. Apparently I’ve done a steamy film with Kiefer Sutherland. Thank you, God! He’s showing a clip on a big screen. My nipple is visible. Kiefer’s hand is moving towards my nipple. Oh my God, Kiefer’s about to touch my nipple! Ah, it’s stopped. That was the shortest clip in the history of clips. I was enjoying it too.

  ‘And the winner of the Best Actress category is . . . Sarah Sargeant.’

  I start screaming. I hug Stephen Fry. I cry. I’m worse than Gwyneth. God, you could have let me be demure for once, in a dream! Stephen Fry has left the stage to get my award. Alone on the stage I hoick a lost G-string out from between my bottom cheeks. Stephen Fry and Kiefer Sutherland return to the stage carrying something heavy. The heavy thing is covered by an oriental rug. Stephen and Kiefer stand before me smiling for a moment. Then they whip the rug away to reveal a six-foot-high pink plastic penis. I hug it. I cry and hug it. Then I clear my throat and start to speak. It is my voice but with a dreadful American accent.

  ‘Single actress, thirty, seeks sexy man,’ I say. I’m using the awards ceremony as a way to find a man. I look around at the faces in the auditorium and say hopefully, ‘Anyone?’

  Blank faces stare back at me. I continue though. I embrace the humiliation. ‘Anyone?’ I repeat. The same dreadful accent. The same desperation in the voice. I search frantically for someone who might want me. I am stroking the giant penis. The rows of faces look embarrassed. They turn away.

  My alarm goes off. I open my eyes. While I was asleep someone filled my room with boxes. All I can see is boxes. And the boxes are full of willies. I’m not joking. I’m not dreaming. There are piles and piles of boxes full of willies in my room. Little pink willy faces are smiling at me. There can be no doubt about it: this is the acid flashback.

  I scream. I see Simon’s face appear in the doorway above a box of willies. It is closely joined by Paranoid Jay’s. Paranoid Jay is grinning. Paranoid Jay is always grinning. I scream again.

  Simon starts to manoeuvre himself around the boxes. He is making a slow path to my bed. His arms are up with his palms facing me as though he is a hunter approaching a wild beast who might kill him. The gesture reminds me of the fact that I actually do want to kill him because he left me in the rain last night.

  I open my mouth to speak. But then I change my mind. I’m not going to speak to him. I’m going to send him to Durham or Coventry or wherever it is. I scream instead. Not because I’m scared. I am just compelled to make noise.

  ‘Now then, Sarah, I had some trouble with storage,’ he says delicately. ‘They won’t be here for long.’

  Paranoid Jay coughs. I give Paranoid Jay a withering look but he just grins back. God, when will I be able to do withering looks?

  ‘She’s just given you one of her withering looks, Jay mate, you’re supposed to respond.’

  Jay looks blank. I look cross.

  ‘It’s a business venture,’ continues Simon. ‘I’m going to make a fortune. Look at them. Cockalada. A tequila-based drink served in the shape of a cock! Genius! Try one!’

  I shake my head.

  ‘They won’t be here long, I promise,’ he says seriously.

  Paranoid Jay coughs again. Simon shoots him a look to silence him. I look at Simon grimly. Then I look at Jay.

  ‘Jay, would you mind doing me a favour?’ I ask with all the cloying sweetness of fourteen Sweet’N Lows in a cup of tea.

  ‘Anything for you, beautiful angel,’ he replies. I wonder whether I’ve been a little harsh on Jay.

  ‘Tell him to bugger off!’ I screech.

  ‘Sare! I just didn’t want you calling that wanker,’ Simon protests. ‘You could barely get on the scooter in that tight skirt anyway.’

  I look at Simon. It is a look of stone. It is hardly the apology I was expecting and I am categorically not going to speak to him until he apologizes.

  I roll over in bed. I keep my back to the room until I hear him and Jay leave. Then I get up and inspect the boxes. There are a variety of cocktail flavours: marga-willy-rita, tropic erotic, apricock and penis colada. I haven’t heard of anything so brilliant since someone told me there was a porn film called A Midsummer Night’s Cream. I am laughing as I open a box. But I stop laughing when I see twenty-four phenomenally realistic bell ends peek back at me. What has happened to my life? When I was ten I used to daydream in Maths class. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wasn’t supposed to be living in a flat full of cocks and getting my boobs out for short Goths. I had a career and a kind man who was a lot like Paul. Paul. Paul. Perfect Paul. Perfect Paul the Perpetrator of Pain. I make the ‘urgh’ sound. I wish Simon would give me back my Pat Benatar CD.

  twenty-six

  I haven’t spoken to Simon for five hours. Not speaking is hard. It makes the Carol Vorderman detox look easy. I think I should be given a trophy, especially as he has been waltzing into my room every half an hour to talk to me. I either waft him away like a fly or sniff and pretend there’s a nasty smell in the room. Apparently he is the sole UK distributor for Cockalada and already has two orders from shop chains. He is strutting around the flat like Del Boy and has started calling Paranoid Jay Rodney.

  It is unfortunate that I can’t talk to him today because I need his advice. I have already submitted my own lonely-hearts ad. And it was free, which is nice. J Lo was right when she sang that song, ‘Love Don’t Cost A Thing’. But now I have to record something called a voicebox greeting, so that if a man likes the sound of my two printed lines, he can dial a number and hear my voice. I’ve decided not to mention that I’m an actress. I don’t want men to assume that I bear qualities often associated with the acting profession like wealth, glamour, famous friends or flawless skin. I’m going to say that I’m a waitress in the hope that the lonely-hearted men will think I’m impoverished and take me out to dinner. But apart from ‘I am a waitress’ what else am I supposed to say? The pre-recorded message of instructions says I should sound confident. The pre-recorded message of instructions is longer than Gone With the Wind. Oh no! That was the beep. Bugger! I have to speak.

  ‘Um
, er, hmmm, hello, I’m Sarah and, um, well, I er. I’m looking for someone nice and fun and you know not too scary-looking, so, er, if you wanted to, um, I’ve never done this before . . . um . . .’ I’m thinking what else to say as Simon bursts into my bedroom. He’s carrying three more boxes of Cockaladas.

  ‘Everybody loves the cock!’ he shouts cheerfully. I look at him with my mouth open. I hear a long beep in my ear. My message is played back. It sounds like a speech therapist’s case study before Simon’s beautifully articulated line about cock.

  ‘Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!!’ I holler.

  That can’t be my Soulmates voicebox greeting. I listen closely to the options on the other end of the line. There must be an option to re-record. Thankfully there is. I do the fly waft to get Simon out of the room.

  ‘Assured and confident, assured and confident,’ I whisper to myself.

  Before I am ready I hear the beep again. I clear my throat. I take a deep breath and am just about to do a sexy, deeply voiced ‘Hi’ when Simon comes back in and shouts, ‘There you go, Sare, ten thousand cocks to keep you busy!’

  I can’t speak to him. I make the ‘urgh’ sound and waft him away at the same time. Simon looks at me as though I might have epilepsy. Then he scuttles out of the room.

  By the third voicebox greeting I mean business.

  ‘Hi,’ I begin, slightly lower than I had anticipated; I sound like I’ve recently had a tonsillectomy. ‘I’m Sarah. I’m a waitress, I love working with people, I also love film and theatre and going out for dinner, so if you would like to do that please give me a—’

  Simon again. Now he’s dressed in a Mexican poncho, a sombrero and his pants. I stop speaking and stare at him. Simon and I like fancy dress but I’ve never seen this Mexican costume. It’s very good. I hope he lets me borrow it. He starts wiggling his hips wildly and singing in a dodgy Mexican accent.

  ‘Cockalada, Cockalada, everyone loves the cock.’

  I purse my lips. I must not laugh. I must remain strong. I start sniffing and wafting but he takes a Cockalada and simulates smacking himself on the bottom, saying in the same dreadful Mexican accent, ‘I so sorry, Sarah! I so sorry, Sarah!’

  My God it’s hard to stay cross with someone when they’re dressed up like a Mexican and singing about cocks. But it’s not until Simon’s little bottom starts bucking up and down as he spanks himself that I weaken and smile.

  I start laughing and hold out my hands for a make-friends hug. I still have the phone in my right hand. Bollocks! My lonely-hearts recording! I put the phone to my ear just in time to hear ‘Voicebox recorded, please hang up now.’

  twenty-seven

  ‘You all right there, Dolly?’ I shout to Julia.

  ‘Stop calling me Dolly!’

  She’s standing in front of me in her bra and pants. We’re not having doubts about our sexuality. We’re at a bridesmaids’ fitting for Nikki and Bertrand’s wedding. Dolly is a reference to Dolly Parton, used because we have been here for over two and a half hours largely on account of Julia’s massive breasts.

  We are in a bungalow in Guildford belonging to a middle-aged dressmaker called Denise. There are four of us in a room that is surrounded on all sides by wedding dresses. This is the first Saturday in over two years that I haven’t worked at the café and I feel like I am spending it inside a giant marshmallow. The only thing in the room that is not a wedding dress or a person or an item of Eighties furniture is Denise’s Dell laptop. I’m an Apple girl but I’m still looking at it longingly. Paul didn’t email me yesterday. For nearly three weeks I received the same email every day. Yesterday he gave up. His head was probably between two nubile thighs and he forgot. I hope the nubile thighs grabbed his head in a vice-like grip until he went blue. But I still want to check whether he’s sent one today.

  I start to hum ‘Nine to Five’. I feel no guilt. Julia did a rousing verse of ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ when I tried to get my dress on earlier.

  ‘You couldn’t get your bum in yours.’

  ‘I could with my new Spanx.’ I sigh lovingly and stroke my new Seamless Mid-Thigh Bodysuit. It’s not the most comfy item of clothing, seeing as it is basically a pair of shorts made out of a trampoline. And there is a small chance that I might pass out while walking down the aisle as it seems to cut off all circulation. But I love it all the same.

  ‘You girls,’ tuts Denise, who’s holding a tape measure around Julia’s bust and shaking her head in wonder.

  ‘What’s the next quest, Sarah?’ asks Flora, Nikki’s younger sister and the third bridesmaid.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say to Flora. Flora is the most beautiful woman in the world and consequently often when she speaks no one listens to a word she says. They are too busy thinking, Wow, you’re soooo beautiful, which I was doing just then.

  Flora is actually more than beautiful. People often describe their friends as beautiful and when you meet them they’re just very pretty from certain angles. But Flora is super-beautiful. She’s so beautiful she makes Kate Moss look like a bit of a minger. She’s five foot eleven with long hair the colour of sand and skin the colour of a perfect cup of tea. She modelled for a few years but gave it up because she wanted to do something more worthwhile. Now she is training to be a midwife.

  ‘Your next quest?’

  ‘Oh, it’s a good one. I’ve got a lonely-hearts ad in tomorrow’s Observer.’ I am so excited about tomorrow. I have got a very good feeling that I will meet a clever Observer-reading type. The only bummer is Julia and I had to swap our Saturday waitressing shift to be here today. Which means that tomorrow when I receive a message from my Observer-reading soulmate I will be up to my cellulite in sexually deviant Polish chefs and overcooked eggs. It’s not how I imagined it at all.

  ‘Gosh, you’re brave!’ says Denise.

  ‘Brave,’ I repeat proudly. I like that. I am a courageous pioneer for women. I might get some business cards printed.

  ‘Gosh, yes. A friend of mine did that. She had a terrible time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well. She met a man who she liked very much.’ Denise keeps her hands on Julia’s breasts while she speaks. ‘I was suspicious of him from the start. Thick neck. Very hairy. Anyway it was all terrifying for her when the child-porn-ring allegations surfaced.’

  I start to feel sick. Julia starts to laugh.

  ‘Shut it, Dolly.’

  ‘Stop calling me Dolly! They’re not that big!’

  ‘Oh they’re lovely, nice big buzooms,’ smiles Denise. I mouth the words ‘You’re in there’ to Julia. She sticks her tongue out at me.

  ‘I just need to pop an extra panel into the bodice of Julia’s dress somehow. It may take me a little while. You make yourselves at home while I set to work.’

  ‘Denise, when you say “make yourselves at home”, I don’t suppose that means I could just check my emails on your computer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought we’d only be here an hour,’ sighs Flora sadly when Denise leaves the room.

  ‘See if she’s got wireless. We could go on Rachel Bird’s blog,’ says Julia, rushing to me. ‘Flora, have you read the blog Confessions of a Convent Girl ? It’s brilliant. Unimaginable filth.’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen it. The only blog I really go on is yours, Sarah.’

  ‘I love you, Flora.’ I smile at her.

  I ignore Julia’s request and quickly check my emails. Nothing from Paul. So that’s that then. I know it’s for the best but I wish I didn’t feel such a sag inside. I switch on to my blog.

  ‘I’ve got a new comment!’ I whoop. ‘From someone called P the Poet.’

  I read aloud:

  There once was a girl called Sarah Sargeant

  Who took a fella on a date to a sporting event.

  There was a misunderstanding

  And now she has banned him,

  But he’s not as bad as she thinks

  And he begs to explain over drinks.

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet,’ s
ays Flora, scrunching up her face as though she’s talking about a baby rabbit.

  ‘Well, you have to get in touch with him now,’ Julia says with so much enthusiasm that her ponytail starts swishing like it’s at a gymkhana.

  ‘Er. No I bloody don’t. Since when do a few lines of dreadful verse make a lying, cheating man a hero?’

  ‘But he’s written you a poem,’ swoons Flora.

  ‘Hang about! It barely rhymes! Sargeant – event! It’s hardly Eminem, is it? A bit of sushi could do better!’

  ‘I’m really cross with you,’ says Julia. Blimey, she looks it too.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For God’s sake give the guy a chance to explain!’

  I look at Julia for a moment and I firmly say the word ‘No’ before closing my laptop and sulking. And then I add the word ‘Dolly’ to really annoy her.

  twenty-eight

  ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God!’ I scream, newspaper in one hand, croissant with butter and jam in the other.

  ‘Sarah. Breathe.’

  ‘I’m at the top of the page! Look! Look!’

  ‘Breathe,’ Julia reminds me flatly.

  ‘I’m in print in the Observer.’

  ‘It’s a plagiarized lonely-hearts ad.’

  ‘No need to pee on my bonfire.’

  ‘Well, you’re stupid!’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘You’ll just meet more short Goths.’

  ‘Cheers for your support, Julia.’

  ‘What about Paul?’

  ‘Oh not this again . . .’

  ‘He is fit, successful, rich, sane! And he’s still keen on you, Sarah! And up until some stupid conversation that Simon overheard you were naming babies with the bloke! YOU SHOULD HEAR WHAT HE’S GOT TO SAY!’